Firefly Lane (Firefly Lane 1)

She stood in the front of the classroom, with a green blackboard behind her. In the desk/chair sets in front of her, a dozen or so bored-looking kids slumped in their chairs; more than a few appeared to be sleeping. Beside her, the professor—a young guy with long, shaggy hair, wearing Air Jordans and camouflage pants—waited patiently.

Kate took a deep breath and began to read: "The girl in the small room in the ramshackle house was all alone again. Or she thought she was. In this place where the lights didnt work and the windows were covered in black paper and duct tape, it was hard to tell the truth. Should she take a chance and try to escape? That was the question. The last time shed tried to run, shed miscalculated and it had cost her. Unconsciously she rubbed the still-tender area along her jaw . . . "

She lost herself in the words shed written, in the short story that was hers and hers alone. All too quickly it was over, the last sentence read, and she looked up, expecting to see a new respect in the faces that stared up at her.

No such luck.

"Well," the professor said, coming forward. "That was entertaining. It seems we have a budding genre writer in our midst. Who has a comment?"

For the next twenty minutes, they dissected Kates story, looking for flaws. She listened carefully, refusing to let herself be stung by the criticisms. Who cared that shed spent almost four weeks on these six pages? What mattered was that she could improve. She could tighten her story and try to master viewpoint and be more careful with her dialogue. By the end of class, instead of feeling wounded or dejected, she felt empowered, as if a heretofore unseen path had just been revealed. She couldnt wait to get home and try again.

As she packed up her stuff to leave, the professor came over to her, said, "You show real promise, Kate. "

"Thank you. "

Beaming, she hurried out of the classroom. All the way across campus and through the student parking lot, she imagined new directions for the story, ways to fix it.

So caught up in her imagined world was she that she missed her exit and had to backtrack.

At just past 1:20, she pulled into the parking stall under the cement viaduct and walked across the street to Ivars Restaurant. Her mother was already seated at a table in the corner. Through the wall of windows, Elliott Bay sparkled in the sunlight. Seagulls wheeled and dropped and dove for french fries thrown by tourists on the pier outside.

"Sorry Im late," Kate said, sitting down across from her mom, unhooking her fanny pack and letting it rest in her lap. "I hate driving in the city. "

"I ordered us both shrimp louies. I know you have to catch the two-ten boat. " Mom leaned forward, put her elbows on the table. "Well? Did your professor think your story was better than John Grisham?"

Kate couldnt help laughing at that. "He didnt use those exact words, no. But he did say I had talent. "

"Oh. " Mom sat back, looking disappointed. "I think your story was brilliant. Even Daddy thought so. "

"Dad thinks Im better than John Grisham, too? And on my very first story. I guess Im a genius. "

"Are you saying our opinion is somewhat inflated?"

"Somewhat. But I love you for it. "

"Im proud of you, Katie," she said softly. "I always wanted to find something like that for me. I guess I made afghans instead. "

"You raised two great kids—well, one great one and one pretty good one," Kate teased. "And you stayed married and made everyone happy. You should be proud of that. "

"I am, but . . . "

Kate placed her hand on her mothers. They both understood; every at-home mom in the world understood. Ultimately there were prices to be paid for the choices a woman made. "Youre my hero, Mom," Kate said simply.

Mom looked at her, tears bright in her eyes. Before she could answer, the waitress returned with their salads and lemonades, put the lunch on the table, and left.

Kate picked up her fork and started eating.

The nausea hit without warning.

"Excuse me," Kate mumbled, dropping her fork and clamping a hand over her mouth as she ran for the restroom. There, in a stiflingly small cubicle, she threw up.

When there was nothing left in her stomach, she went to the sink and washed her hands and face, rinsed out her mouth.

Her whole body felt trembly and weak. Her face in the mirror was bone-pale and drawn. For the first time she noticed the dark shadows under her eyes.

Maybe she was coming down with the stomach flu, she thought. Everyone at playgroup was sick this week.

Still feeling shaky, she returned to the table, under her mothers watchful gaze.